


Time Ticking

by fairyScorpicus



Category: Danger in Fiction (Cyndago), Markiplier TV (Web Series), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Fire, Mark Fischbach Egos, Markiplier ego, Markiplier egos - Freeform, Nightmares, Or Is It?, Poison, Poisoning, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, host whump, house burns down, its all a dream though, person catches on fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28622784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairyScorpicus/pseuds/fairyScorpicus
Summary: Whumptober Day 22 FicThe Host whump- Poisoned- Warning for someone getting poisoned, also fire, a person sort of catches on fire? A house burns down but it’s okay
Kudos: 10





	Time Ticking

Sweat dripped down the Host’s forehead. Everything felt hot, too hot, but the last two attempts to remove his trenchcoat revealed his pale arms, immediately breaking out in goosebumps. So the Host kept the coat on. He liked the comforting weight of the clothing anyway, it helped him, mentally at least.

Physically? The Host was suffering. He felt absolutely ill and he blamed those fans of his. If that particularly devoted fan hadn’t recognized him when he dared to leave the mansion the other day, then they wouldn’t have posted about it on their social media and he wouldn’t have been absolutely swamped with fans of his show, not a particularly large number but enough to make the Host wish he hadn’t gone outside. He was terrible with people. And now they had passed their germs along to him and his compromised immune system.

Dr. Iplier wouldn’t be pleased, the Host knew, but as a headache started to form and his head began to pound, the Host knew he would help the Host feel better if he could just find the energy to get up. But he was exhausted and he felt terrible.

With a heave, he launched himself to his feet. Immediately the world around him started to spin, and he held his arms out futilely to keep his balance as the ground seem to buck and churn like the ocean. But the ground was not moving, the Host was. He swayed for a moment, trying to catch his balance, before heading towards the living room, and beyond that, the doctor’s office. The Host hoped the doctor was there and not in his room, further away.

“Hey, Host!” Another ego greeted the blind ego as he made his way through the living room, but the Host wasn’t paying attention. The Host was entirely focused on walking forwards, keeping his balance as his visions starting to tunnel. Standing up was feeling like a monstrous mistake, but the tantalizing concept of the doctor making everything feel better propelled the Host along.

The door appeared to be closed, but as the Host leaned against it, he learned it was unlocked as it swung open with a bang under his weight. The Host stumbled inside, unbalanced. Dr. Iplier looked up from the other side of the room as the Host barely managed to catch his balance with the desk by the door.

“Host?” Dr. Iplier asked, standing up.

“Doctor,” The Host slurred, leaning against the desk for desperately needed support. “Something’s wrooonnggg-” His grip slipped and the Host fell forward, cracking his head against the desk corner.

Everything went black.

Someone was talking.

“Serious… Poison… Who…?” Dr. Iplier was speaking, voice filtering in and out of the Host’s ear. The Host couldn’t muster the energy to listen or to care.

Dark- Dark? What was he doing here?- asked something sharply, but the Host didn’t hear. He was hot again. He tried to move his arm to remove his coat, but moving his arm was like moving a boulder. It felt heavy and impossible. With a grunt of effort, he managed to move his hand onto his chest, only to find his coat already missing. What…?

“Host?” Dr. Iplier asked, voice sounding closer. “Are you awake?”

The Host grimaced, feeling drained and still as miserable as when he entered the office, only now his head hurt more.

“Wha’ happ’ned?” Talking felt like a chore. The Host tried to get his bearings. He seemed to be laying on the bed meant for the patients. The Host didn’t remember getting on the bed.

“Who did this to you.” A voice interrupted the Host’s thoughts, angry and commanding. The Host lolled his head to face Dark.

“Wha d’ya m’n?” The Host slurred, confused. He frowned. Did Dark suspect some form of foul play? “Ah’m jus’ sick.” The Host’s mouth felt dry.

“That answers our question,” Dr. Iplier said grimly, then reached forward to place his hand on the Host’s forehead. It was cool, and the Host felt ridiculously grateful for it.

“Host,” he said slowly. “You were poisoned. Did you eat or drink anything suspicious?’ The Host frowned. All the food and drinks he had had were from the manor’s own kitchen. When he went outside yesterday, he hadn’t gotten anything.

Wait. Outside yesterday.

“B’mp’d ‘to f’ns y’sterday,” He mumbled, pushing the words out his dry lips. The Host sensed Dark lean forward.

“Fans?” He demanded, and Dr. Iplier tried to answer for the Host.

“He went outside yesterday and got mobbed by a few fans of his radio show.”

The room seemed to groan threateningly.

“I’ll be back,” Dark growled, voice glitching. “Hopefully soon.”

The room went suddenly quiet, and the Host became aware of the ringing noise that had grown while Dark had talked only because it stopped suddenly, presumably signifying Dark’s exit.

Which was fine. The Host felt exhausted. His entire body seemed to ache.

“Host, I’m going to run a few tests,” Dr. Ipleir informed him, picking up a needle. “I don’t know how serious this is, it might be lethal.” He took a deep breath. “God, I hope not.” He turned to the Host. “Relax your arm, I’m going to take a bit of your blood.”

But the Host was already unconscious again.

He was on fire. Flames licked the walls of his cabin and he ran for the bathroom.

“Make it stop,” he cried, batting at his sleeve as it threatened to catch fire. He turned on the sink and splashed his face. He glanced up, face relievingly wet, and froze. His reflection grinned back at him from the mirror, dressed in a black polo shirt and holding a lighter. The Author seemed to mock him as the light of the fire danced in his luminous eyes.

“Aww,” The Author teased. “Is it getting too hot?” The reflection flicked the lighter on.

“What are you doing?!” He yelled at the Author. “Are you crazy?! We have to get out of here!”

“No,” The Author grinned. “I have to get out of here.” The ego reached towards him and the Host scrambled back as the Author’s hand passed through the glass towards him. He was too slow, and the Author gripped the collar of his trenchcoat.

“If you can’t handle the heat, get out of the kitchen!” The Author laughed, climbing out of the mirror. “But wait!” The ego in black tilted his head, still grinning. “You aren’t in the kitchen, are you?” The Author’s voice was falsely sympathetic. “That’s too bad.”

The ego grabbed the Host and pressed the lit lighter against the Host’s purple shirt, on his chest over his heart. He screamed in pain, and the Author stepped back toward the door.

“Bye-bye!” The Author waved, the flames parting for the ego as he headed to the front door. “You should’ve been dead, Hosty-Toasty. Get it? Toasty?” The Author cackled. “It doesn’t matter. You’re in deep trouble now!” The Host gasped in panic, batting at his shirt where it still burned, but the pain didn’t let up. He reached for the bathroom door but the flames started to close in. He coughed, tears building up as the smoke threatened to choke him.

“Help!” He shouted, the heat of the fire too hot against his face. “Help!”

But it was too late, and the fire closed in.

The Host flailed, screaming. Someone was holding him down.

“Host! Calm down, it was just a nightmare!”

“Put it out,” He sobbed hysterically. “Oh god, it hurts, put it out!”

“Shit, he’s burning up!” Someone said, and a hand landed on the Host’s forehead. He twisted away from the hand and threw up.

“Gross!”

“Bing, roll him on his side, don’t let him choke!” Dr. Iplier shouted from somewhere, and the hands holding him down helped roll the Host to his side. Someone snickered.

“Next time you get this duty, Google!” Bing yowled, and the snickering intensified.

“This isn’t a laughing matter!” A wet cloth landed on the Host’s neck, and he almost sobbed in relief.

“He seems to be getting worse,” A detached tone noted.

“Where’s Dark?” Dr. Iplier asked, sounding desperate.

“He hasn’t returned yet, so we can only assume he’s still looking for who did this.”

“He needs to hurry up! We-”

Someone was tapping his cheek gently. Their hands were calm, but their voice was panicked.

“Host, you need to stay awa-”

Someone was shouting. There was a pinch on his arm. He tried to pull away but something was holding him down. He felt so hot. His ears rang.

The darkness had never felt colder.

“H…t?”

Something was beeping. The Host groaned as noises filtered in slowly. A ringing noise. Someone talking.

“If things like this keep happening, I’m going to make a new rule. No one leaves the manor by themselves.” Someone growled, voice close to the Host’s ear. The Host grimaced, but the voice was just loud, not painful. He felt warm but not hot. His body ached but felt easy to move.

“How many of the egos will argue?” He asked Dark.

“None.” The ego replied, sitting on a chair by the Host’s bed. “You and Wilford are the only two stupid enough to go to town alone anyway,”

“What about the doctor?” The Host protested, turning to face the monochrome ego.

“He rides with Henrik,” Dark replied smugly.

“King?”

“He doesn’t go to town, he goes to the forest.”

“What about the Jims?” The Host asked, smiling smugly. No one knew where those two went half the time, and they were always technically together even if they were just as vulnerable as if they were apart.

“They don’t go into town without Wilford or Bim,” Dark sounded half-annoyed, half-pleased as the Host groaned in defeat.

“But the Host-”

“No buts,” Dark decided on annoyed. And worried. “This needs to be prevented from happening again.” Yes, the demonic ego must have gotten quite the fright.

“How bad was it?” The Host asked, seemingly changing the subject.

“Bad, Host.” Dark admitted. “Almost didn’t save you in time.”

“So I am one of the egos that can die,” The Host noted.

“We all have the potential to die,” Dark snapped, and his chair scraped noisily when he stood up. “But I’d like to keep that from happening!”

There was silence.

“Alright,” The Host allowed, sighing. “The Host didn’t go to town that much anyway.”

“Good.” The monochrome ego sat back down. “I have other news you’re not going to like.” The Host raised an eyebrow.

“Do tell.”

“The person who poisoned you wasn’t a fan of your radio show.”

“Oh?”

“They were a fan of your books.” The Host froze.

“Those are the Author’s books.”

“The Author’s books.” Dark corrected himself. “They also went through your old cabin.” The Host stiffened further.

“What did they do?”

“They burnt it down, it seems,” Dark said. He patted the Host’s shoulder. “I suppose the good side was that it needed to go anyways.”

The Host didn’t reply.

“Get some sleep,” Dark stood up again, heading to the door. “You deserve it. I’ll alert the doctor that you woke up temporarily. Bye-bye.”

Yet he lingered for a moment further.

“You should’ve been dead, Host.” He said softly, and the Host felt paralyzed with fear. Then:

“I’m glad you’re not.”


End file.
